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Sport and Other Drugs

Liquorland was an incredibly busy place to work this past week, and there are three words that will explain why:

State of Origin

That will only mean something to the people who live in Australia (or more specifically, New South Wales and Queensland). For those of you scattered around the world, State of Origin is a series of three football games, played over a few Wednesday nights set a few weeks apart, in order to determine... well, which state is better at playing football, I guess. But the sheer volume of people entering the doors wearing football paraphernalia has got me wondering: What is it exactly that is so damn interesting about sports?

The notion of football in particular baffles me. I'm not opposed to the idea of an active pastime, but I fail to see the draw of one in which you catch a ball before running as hard and fast as you possibly can into the nearest person, before he and all his teammates thump seven different kinds of crap out of you. But that's just me.

Then, moreover, I find it hard to deal with the fact that people actually make a profession out of doing exactly this. I can't imagine it would be a very fulfilling career - if it were, 90% of the participants would not feel the need to employ a conga line of hookers so long it would make Charlie Sheen himself turn green with envy.

But what I find most surprising of all is that not only do people pay significant amounts of money to go to a stadium and watch them, they actually become emotionally involved in the success and failure of "their" team. Below is a photo of one of my Facebook friends at a football game, which will henceforth be referred to as Exhibit A. Before you open the spoiler tag, I feel I should ask you to prepare your loins, as you are in for a sexy treat.

Spoiler:

Look at that beautiful specimen. It gives me chills.

I'd always suspected it was the copious amounts of alcohol I sold people that made sports into compelling viewing, but apparently not. I've seen larger men than my boyfriend Exhibit A there be reduced to tears when their team loses (or wins, for that matter). Not least of all are the players themselves, who seem to be overcome with pride that they have officially proven that their penises are larger than those of the men on the opposing side - or correspondingly, shame at the idea that their penises were not big enough to obtain them this victory.

This whole phenomenon also got me to thinking about how my father has always seen me as less of a male for taking no interest in sports. I was the fat kid in school, and my shining moment of genius was when I spent a day with my right hand wrapped in a bandage, telling everybody the story of how I had sprained my wrist the night before, only to take the bandage off at the end of the PE lesson (in which I was excused from participating) and say "Ah, that feels much better."

Even though I've lost the weight, my co-ordination never improved, and it has always been a great source of disappointment to my father that I was never the kind of boy to go throw a ball with him in the yard and that to this day I still cannot ride a bike without training wheels. Incidentally, the fact that I can speak fluent French and do my own taxes - therefore negating my need to run around chest-bumping other men while exchanging manly growls (outside the bedroom) - means nothing to him, but that's a subject for another blog. My point is, it speaks volumes about our priorities as a society.

So, you've reached the end of the post. Congratulations if you have made it this far, below you will find your trophy. Because that's what it all comes down to in the end, isn't it? A trophy.

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